Archive for the ‘nostalgia’ category
Classic film fans have, over the past several years, embraced an emerging, and vibrant, niche community. This is highly evident right here in the blogosphere where, if I do say so myself, the very finest blogs on the interwebs are those manned by classic film fans (Shameless plug for Hollywood Revue, Backyard Fence, Out of the Past, True Classics, MovieStar Makeover, Sales on Film, Filmoria, and so many many many more amaaaaazing blogs — all of these and many more will rock your black and white world.) But the unsurpassed leader of this long-surpressed niche, is the cable network Turner Classic Movies.
Dear Turner Classic Movie Fans Everywhere:
As all of you are very well aware, this week marks the return of the one, the only, wonderful Mr. Robert Osborne who, after a five-month hiatus, resumes his primetime hosting duties on the TCM stage this week, December 1st.
“Welcome Back Bob” is a week-long celebration brought to you by the online constituency of the classic film community. The Kitty Packard Pictorial and classic film blogger Will McKinley are sponsoring this humble little tribute, but the voices that truly matter are YOURS: everyone who makes up our vital, virtual community of classic film fanatics. We are, I think it’s safe to say, a close knit, affectionate community of film lovers and, with Bob Osborne being a patron saint of classic film, it is only fitting to rally together this week to share what it is we love about our dear Robert O— and classic film itself— and why it is such a unifying force.
Here’s how it works:
Hop on over to the Welcome Back Bob Tumblr page this week and voice up in any way you like: share memories, a video, a photo, a “Welcome Back Bob” graphic, a blog post, or even just a li’l old tweet– the sky’s the limit! If you post something on your blog or tumblr, tweet @MissCarley and we’ll repost it. And if/when you do tweet, make sure to tag it with #WelcomeBackBob so we can find it and share it!
A whole lotta tomato.
Pick your hyperbole, the fact is that 1930s cinema were full of that most suggestive of appendages in a way never quite paralleled since.
Sure, they’re still everywhere because they’re still sexy. They’ve always been sexy– ever since skirts first hiked heavenward in the late 20s straight through to today. But never quite this sexy. Perhaps for the fact that the definition of “sexy” is dependent upon the word “suggestive.” Today, sex on film is hardly suggestive. It is blatant, forthright, overpowering, and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
These shots? They leave everything to the imagination.
Wherein the real power lies… Read more ►
David Thomson is one of my favorite film critics, if for no other reason than he’s not above throwing film theory out the window to say, in effect, “I like it because I like it SO THERE.”
I’m always game to read a good shadowplay soapbox from Thompson’s lovably cantankerous pen. The fact that when we differ, oh boy how we differ, makes moments of complete accord all the sweeter.
He hit the nail squarely on the head on this one.
Jack Cardiff‘s decadent cinematography, Moira Shearer‘s elegant dancing, surreal art direction, combined with Powell and Pressburger’s powerful vision… it is an extraordinary, singular, everlasting piece of “art for art’s sake.”
How else do you account for film credit titles quite this beautiful?
So I’ve decided to do what I’ve wanted to do for years: document the stories my granddad and grandma raised me on. The stories that were, and still are, pivotal to the person I am. (For better or worse.) At the moment there isn’t structure to this– it is simply a late Sunday evening whim that will, eventually, be fashioned into form. I’ve known all my life that my granddad and grandma’s stories were truly something special and, finally, I’m summoning the gumption to tell them.
My granddad passed seven years ago, which is the reason for this sudden nostalgic retrospective. One of my last, and fondest, memories is of him in the passenger seat of my car as I drove the two of us drove to meet family on the Coast. He’d begrudgingly forgiven me for buying a Volkswagen (the first in my family not to buy an American car– the wrath had been hot and hellish) and was happy to play with the car’s fancy stereo system. I was 22 and already an old soul, so it wasn’t surprising that I was playing a Tommy Dorsey CD. It made granddad sigh, brandish those famous suspenders of his, and lounge back in his seat. The California coast, on a spectacular blue Saturday, passed the windows and we repeated the words toget, softly reverent:
Never thought I’d fall but now I hear love call,
I’m getting sentimental over you.
Things you say and do just thrill me through and through
I’m getting sentimental over you.
Were his stories 100 percent true? Even when granddad was alive, reclining in his chair and brandishing his suspenders proudly over a rollicking good tale, their authenticity was suspect. HOW could ALL of that have happened to ONE person?
But we chose to believe. Oh, did we ever. And the light in granddad’s eyes when he weaved his stories to us grandchildren sitting Indian style on that Persian rug in a dimly lit family room, amber glow flickering from the hearth, those stories were as real as anyone could imagine.
* * *
Granddad came from Chicago. Well, Springfield to be honest, but from 15 on he was a Chicagoan in every sense of the word. My granddad, Glenn R. York, was born in 1917 and his early life was the stuff of Dickens. Orphaned at a young age, his rough years at the country orphanage were not eased by going to live with an indifferent Auntie and Uncle. This was Prohibition-era Illinois and by twelve he was working with a gin mill practitioner to earn money to support himself and his petulant younger sister, Bonnie. Electricity was also quite the booming market in the mid-west backwoods and there were many a story of makeshift services to run electricity to those old log cabins in the sticks. Hardly legal and, more to the point, hardly safe.
One of my favorite stories was of my 12 year old granddad, ginger haired and freckled (he was 2nd generation Irish) in short pants and lace-up boots, working as an underage rum-runner in Springfield, lingering to hear the stories told by gray-haired old-timers at battered old tables. He told us grand kids openly “I kick myself for not writing down those crazy tales they told. They were veterans, you know.” We’re talking Union soldiers from the Civil War, no less, and although those intimate tales are lost to time, they live in my memory of my grandad’s wide twelve-year-old eyes.
He had to fight for an education, which explains his nearly fanatical obsession with it later in his life. Always one of the sharpest tools in the shed, by the time he graduated from high school he’d resolved that the difference between a rich man and a poor man was, not just the amount of fight in his fiber, but the seal on his diploma. But even my granddad, dedicated as he was to higher learning, put everything on hold for what was, to most men of his age, the ideal career: serving his country in uniform. He was 21 when he enlisted in the service.
In 1939, how could anyone have known what lay just around the corner.
Apologies for the lack of photos in this post. They are all with my grandmother and I’ve plans to spend some greatly overdue time with her, pouring over their scrapbooks. Coming soon: Service in the Pacific (kinda) and law-enforcement in 1950s Hollywood. (Judy Garland, William Holden, Bing Crosby … check, check, and check!)